The Gift

I
did not live a childhood full of wonder and magical moments.
I
was not encouraged to believe in fairies, elves or to even consider
the very real nature of magic. My parents were too practical to
entertain encouraging such notions in their house. Their days were
filled with strife, work, and a general sense of discontent with
their lot.

On
my fatherís part, he was consumed by a constant longing to be
home with his parents and siblings in their far home on the
island of Mauritius. As a child, the only things I understood
about his homeland was that a) it was the home of the dodo, the same
mythical creature that appears in Alice
in Wonderland and
b) since it
was on the other side of the world, summer came in December.

My
mother on the other hand, was more of an enigma. She
didnít
speak much about anything of import and never about her past, only
about the future. It was common knowledge in our household that one
day we would emigrate to America to be near her family who had left
Mauritius and settled in the U.S. before I was born. It was this
journey that had been instrumental in my mother and father meeting.
My twenty-year-old mother and her father served as the advance
guard to the family -- 7 other children and my grandmother remained
behind -- and were on the way to stay with my motherís
oldest sister who had married an American merchant marine and settled
in Philadelphia. Once they arrived in London, my grandfather and
mother stayed with her another sister, my grandfatherís second
oldest living child, who as consolation for not having found a
husband at 23, had been sent to complete a nursing course. In the way
of all immigrants, the Mauritians had formed an ex-pat community
where they could speak their language together, shake hands with a
fellow countryman and reminisce over food that was flavored to their
liking.

Within
a week of arriving in London, my mother was introduced to my father
and by the end of the month he asked for her hand in marriage.
The wedding itself was quickly arranged so my grandfather could
complete his passage to the U.S. as scheduled; I was born ten
months later. Many years later my mother asserted her father directed
her to marry my dad and she decided it wasnít a bad
choice: her new husband would speak her language as her
English
was nonexistent then and she did not think it likely an American man
would take her.

Practical
people have no time for magic. I read about magical beings and
occurrences in my storybooks but I implicitly understood magic was
for other people and usually to be found in fiction.

No,
my life was a bit Dickensian. I went to school, I came home and did
homework, and watched TV (BBC and ITV in the days before cable and
satellite TV) and went to bed. The next day was a repeat. On Fridays,
I went to the laundrette with my mother and brother; while we waited,
she bought us cakes or sausage rolls at the bakery next door. Once we
had washed and dried the weekís dirt I was charged with ironing
all the shirts: my fatherís, my brotherís and because I
went to Catholic school that required a uniform, my own. For
some reason my family did not own an ironing table so I would go to
my room, spread out a bed sheet on the floor and iron while on my
knees. One time I burned my wrist on the iron and thinking to soothe
the hurt, I rubbed it with Vaseline. The skin blistered, scarred, and
left a dark elliptical shaped mark.

The
house of my childhood was a brick row home. One room wide, but deep.
On the first floor was the sitting room featuring a bay window that
looked out on our fenced graveled front garden and the street. This
room was furnished with a three-piece suite and was not in general
use except when we had company or if I went there to read. It was
closed off from the rest of the house by glass doors. When we
had moved in my mother stopped the deliveries of coal and installed
central heating and put in wall-to-wall carpeting to make the place
updated. Later she had the fireplaces ripped out so the rooms would
be bigger.

Our
front room kept for ďbestĒ was also the place we kept our
Christmas tree and record player. Each December I would sit there
looking at the treeís multicolored lights, listening to
Perry Como, Bing Crosby and because my mother was a fan, Elvis
Presley, on LPS singing Christmas carols.

When
I was eight I received a Kermit puppet. The card was made out to
ďShielaĒ instead of ďS-h-e-i-l-a.Ē
Looking at the card I knew that Father Christmas aka Santa aka the
big guy in red didnít exist because if he did, he would not
have misspelled my name or have handwriting that looked like my
motherís. I donít remember feeling particularly
disillusioned -- after all he wasnít a presence in our
home -- but deep down Iíd hoped.

I
shrugged it off, took the puppet, and soldiered on.

The
next year was more of the same. But the year after everything
changed. Since there was no need to wait on the big guy or worry
about the naughty or nice list, I came down in the middle of the
night to look under the tree. There was an unfamiliar present
-- by then I had sussed out my motherís hiding place and
already intimately knew all the toys that were coming my way. It was
a plain square with no label. I carefully peeled back the
tape
holding the colored wrapping paper and inside was a broad book with a
pink cover. I remember how cold the room was in the dead of
the
night and how quiet everything was. I wondered who this gift was
intended for. I put the book back and went to bed.

The
next morning the package was given to me. The book was filled with
tales I had not heard, not fairy tales but stories of imps and fiends
who committed larceny and murder but then were severely punished. It
had black and white illustrations and a hot pink cover. The stories
were dark, but funny. I treasured this gift. I hadnít asked
for it -- not that it would have mattered if I had. I tended to get
gifts that didnít have any correlation to my secret desires --
but this BOOK. I hadnít asked for it. It was just what I
wanted. I loved it.

It
seemed so unlikely that my parents would get this for me. Who could
have brought it for me? A wave of happiness engulfed me. It was
simply wondrous that I should have this gift in my hand, a gift I
didnít know I wanted but was immediately precious. It was
moment filled with wonder.

*****

Sheila Sandapen writes fiction, essays, and blogs in her spare time. She is also part of a long standing memoir group. She teaches English and Writing in the Philadelphia area.